Shockwaves
by Sita Z
Summary: Malcolm finds he can't cope. Trip keeps a promise. Shockwave II Coda.
1. Chapter 1

Author: Sita Z

Title: Shockwaves

Rating: R for violence (not graphic)

Disclaimer: The show and its characters belong to Paramount. No profit is being made from this story and no infringement is intended.

Author's notes: Big thanks to Gabi and Romanse for a great beta job! Yes, the Angst!Bunny bit me again, and it wouldn't let go...

**Please note** that this story deals with violence and adult themes. **If that offends you**, please be warned that you might not like parts of the story.

As to whether this is Slash or not, I'm not sure myself; I guess it can be interpreted as Slash, but it doesn't have to be. I'll leave that to you to decide :).

Since the chapters are quite short, they'll be posted daily.

Sorry for the long Author's Note! Enjoy!

* * *

Malcolm I

He couldn't tell anyone.

He knew that when he got to his feet, when he stood for a moment, swaying, when he fell to his knees and vomited onto the deck in front of his bed.

He couldn't tell. That was what would make this bearable. It was how he got by in life; making things bearable for himself - finding routines to establish, schedules to keep, rules to follow.

This was his new rule: He could never tell anyone about this. And it was one rule he couldn't break, because if he did, it would be over. There would be nothing left, no safety in his daily routines, no secret pleasure when he accomplished something well enough to meet even his own high standards. No familiar conversational patterns to fall into, no sense of companionship when someone sat down at his table in the messhall.

No one would sit down at his table in the messhall. And that was why he couldn't afford to break the new rule. He wouldn't. He was good at following rules.

He scrubbed for over an hour, first himself, then the floor, then the shower. He threw away the towel he had used, stuffing it down the waste recycler instead of the laundry chute. His uniform and underwear followed soon after. He sprayed cleaning agent on the deck until he almost gagged from the stink, then took the spray into the bathroom and scoured and polished until every surface gleamed almost painfully. After that, he threw the cleaning utensils away. Everything needed to go, if the new rule was to work. This had never happened.

He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. His right eye was one giant bruise with a small crack in the middle. They'd loosened a tooth, and it had sliced his lip when they had punched down on it again. Carefully, he pulled down the swollen, bloated flesh of his lip, took the tooth with two fingers and pushed it back into its socket. Maybe it would grow on again. There was more pain, but it was best not to try and find out exactly where it was coming from. He'd made sure that there would be no outer evidence, and that had to be enough. Things would take care of themselves. They usually did if he followed the rules, self-made or otherwise.

He smoothed down a crinkle in the new uniform he'd put on. Was it obvious that he had changed? He didn't think so. No one would notice, even if – as he hoped with all his heart – things had turned out all right down in Engineering, turned out as planned.

There was nothing left to do, and so he remained where he was, standing in the middle of his clean, smooth, sterile-smelling bathroom. He listened to himself breathe, his chest rising and falling. He was still functioning. Functioning enough to keep it together, keep going. Yes. Keep it together until things took care of themselves.

When Trip unlocked his door an hour later, Malcolm was surprised how well the new rule was working out. He even smiled when he heard that everyone was okay.

* * *

Sickbay was a problem.

Of course he had to go, or someone would put their foot down and escort him there. Trip ordered him to go the moment he had seen Malcolm's face, and although it would have been easy enough to disobey, Malcolm decided not to. He would have to make an appearance there sooner or later, and it was better to go now when the place was swamped.

Trip offered to accompany him, obviously concerned, but Malcolm declined. There was pain when he moved, more than he'd expected, and it would show at some point. Trip, unsuspecting as he was in some areas, would notice that something was amiss. It was better if he went alone.

He was lucky. Sickbay was crowded with crewmembers who'd acquired the odd bump and bruise, and he managed to stay in the background until one of Phlox' techs, a young woman who looked no older than twenty-five, was free.

She cleaned him up, treated his lip with the derm restorer, and of course wanted him to go into the imaging chamber to make sure that nothing was broken. He didn't argue with her; he knew better than that. Instead, he suggested she use a handscanner.

"It looks worse than it is, Crewman." So what if she thought he was acting macho. He even managed a crooked smile for her sake. "Really, I'll be all right."

There was a tense moment when she studied the handscanner a little too long – the device couldn't have picked up anything, could it, he would have to go into the imaging chamber, and even then only Phlox would be able to draw the right conclusions. There was no way-

"You seem to be all right, Lieutenant."

Carefully, very carefully, he loosened his fingers which had gripped the examination bed hard enough to hurt. It was okay. She hadn't noticed his sudden panic, or anything else for that matter.

"Thank you, Crewman."

She injected him with a painkiller, gave him a sleeping pill and told him to come back in the morning so Phlox could check him up. He nodded, careful to avoid the doctor on his way out. She would make an entry in his patient file, he supposed, noting down his injuries and the treatment. So that was taken care of. Written proof that he had been in sickbay. Phlox would review the updated file, of course, and maybe he would want Malcolm to come back for a more thorough examination, but he would find a way to deal with that when it happened.

The painkiller helped a little, and he made it to his quarters without an incident. Once inside, he locked the door, went into the head, and stripped down, afraid that he would find traces on his uniform. If anyone had seen...

He closed his eyes, exhaling. Nothing on the outside, only his boxers that were soiled. They went into the waste recycler, and he was about to let the uniform follow when he remembered that he only had four more left, two of which were in the laundry. He might be able to cover up the loss of one uniform – stealing one from Crew Supplies came to mind – but not two.

He filled his sink with water so hot that it was scalding, added some of the cleaning detergent and left the uniform to soak. It would have to do. He couldn't wear anything that might have traces of blood on it. The thought made him want to vomit.

As he went back into the main room, there was a movement in the corner behind him, quick, snake-like. He spun around, it couldn't be, they couldn't be here, not again, not-

The sudden pain made his knees buckle. He sank down to the deck, biting his tongue hard to keep any sound inside. The deck plating felt cool and clean under his knees. There was no one there. A mistake.

Slowly, he got up again, forcing himself to ignore the stabs of pain that went through him as he walked over to the sofa. He couldn't afford to give himself away when he was outside his quarters, so he'd better get used to ignoring the pain and discomfort. He could do that. He'd ignored pain before, and it had taken care of itself.

Eventually, everything did.

TBC...

Please let me know what you think of this so far!


	2. Chapter 2

Malcolm II

_"I don't know."_

_Wrong answer. It was always the wrong answer, he knew that. Whack, and he tasted more blood, saw it drip to the floor as he was thrown across the armrest. They'd broken something, either a tooth or his jaw; he'd heard the crack._

_They pulled him back into the chair, and he tried to straighten up, tried to look Silik in the eyes. They would break him eventually, it was his job to let them break him, but he wouldn't cower._

_Something about Daniels' quarters. He saw Silik's tongue move in the lipless mouth like a blue-tinged snake._

_"I guess I wasn't thinking."_

_But he should be thinking now, thinking about what would happen to him if he didn't answer their questions, and yes, he **was** thinking about it, Silik had made himself perfectly clear-_

_The device again. What did it do? He didn't know._

_Again, the wrong answer, and he could see in Silik's eyes that this wasn't going to continue much longer. It was hard to talk through the blood in his mouth._

_"I was told to destroy it."_

_Who had told him to destroy it? The hand on his uniform was choking him now._

_"Captain Archer."_

_Silik's eyes came alive at that, and Malcolm could see that he was buying the story, that he'd walked right into the trap. It had been a desperate plan, and those, Malcolm knew, were often the ones most likely to work._

_He'd pulled his part off. The rest was in Trip's and T'Pol's capable hands._

_"Have the Lieutenant returned to his quarters."_

_They grabbed him, and now he remembered, there was Hoshi in his quarters, guarding the two unconscious Suliban-_

_He started to struggle noisily in the corridor leading to his cabin, hoping she'd hear him, maybe she could hide in the bathroom even if there was no way to remove the two Suliban in time..._

_"Let me go! Bloody bastards!" Blood dripped from his swollen lips, and he prayed that Hoshi would recognize his voice, if not the words. "Get your hands off me!"_

_Silik's assistant, the one called Veren, laughed at that. "Can't really talk like that, can you?"_

_Malcolm managed to kick the door twice before they could hold him still long enough to reach the door panel. "Let me go!"_

_Veren laughed again, and there was a strange undertone to it. "I don't think so."_

_The door opened, and Malcolm tensed, preparing for the disaster about to follow, when he saw that Hoshi and her prisoners had disappeared. She must have realized that he was likely to be brought back here, and had made sure to be gone in time. Thank God._

_Veren pushed him inside, and Malcolm stumbled, losing his balance. There was a sharp pain, and he found himself sprawled on the floor next to his bed. His head was suddenly very light. He must have hit his forehead on the edge of the bunk._

_A Suliban boot stepped into his field of vision, and he closed his eyes. So this was round two, a little extra fun without Silik there to interrupt. He braced himself for the blow, but it didn't come._

_Instead, Veren knelt down next to him. "Is it true, then?"_

_Malcolm froze. If they'd known all along what he was up to, if this was only a charade Silik had set up to fool him-_

_Veren reached out, touching Malcolm's hair. "Is it true that humans are like wild _st'vio_ when they mate?"_

_He smiled coldly and suddenly tightened his grip, and it was then that Malcolm began to struggle again-_

* * *

His quarters. He was in his quarters, it was dark, and he was alone. There was no one there. He knew there wasn't. It had been a nightmare.

His neck ached from the sofa's armrest, and there were pins and needles prickling in his left arm. It had been wedged between him and the hard cushions, the blood circulation constricted by his own weight.

Malcolm sat up and hit the light switch. His eyes flickered from the corner next to the door to the corner next to the bathroom to his bunk. Nobody. No shadows, no movements, no figures melting out of the walls and advancing on him.

A nightmare. That was all.

_They could be in the bathroom_.

No, he thought, no, it was a nightmare. He wasn't going to make a fool out of himself by checking every corner of his quarters like a little boy afraid of monsters-

_They could be in the bathroom._

Very quietly, he got up. He considered whether he should get the old EM33 out of his locker, but it would make too much noise to open the drawer. Their hearing was sharper than a human's. Slowly, very slowly, he approached the bathroom door. They would have adapted to the surroundings in their chameleon-like way, hiding in there, waiting for him-

Good thing he had kept the dagger close by. He'd slice them open one by one.

The handle of the weapon clutched in his hand, he pressed himself against the wall next to the bathroom door. His heart was beating madly in his chest, and he was in pain, but it didn't matter. He was going to kill them this time.

He jumped into the open. The bathroom was empty. Of course it was.

Malcolm stood there, fingers closed around the dagger. Only his bathroom, smelling faintly of cleaning detergent, his towels stacked neatly on one shelf. There was no one there.

He stood there for a long time. Then he went back to the main room, passing his stripped-down bunk, and returned to the sofa. The dagger, an artfully made ornamental weapon he'd picked up on an alien space station, went back to where it had been, the crack between the sofa cushions.

The pain was worse now, and he found he couldn't lie down as he had before, when he had curled up in one corner of the small sofa with his head propped on the armrest. He wondered why the pain wasn't disappearing, why it seemed to be getting worse instead of getting better. He wasn't seriously hurt, couldn't be. It would take care of itself, in due time.

Lying down on the bunk would be more comfortable, but he wasn't going to. He'd thrown the sheets away, he'd sprayed cleaning detergent all over the mattress in spite of the smell – his entire quarters stank of the stuff, anyway – and he'd scrubbed the plastic headboard and sides, but it wasn't enough. The sofa would have to do.

Gingerly so as not to worsen the pain, he lay down on his side, pulling up his knees so he would fit onto the sofa's small seat. It was cramped, yes, but he found that he didn't really mind. The two armrests and the backrest surrounded him like a barrier, and there was the dagger hidden where he could reach it with one, quick grab. Hand moving under the blanket, he felt for it. Yes, it was there.

Good.

He was never going to be unprepared again.

TBC...

Please leave a review and let me know what you think!


	3. Chapter 3

Malcolm III

Malcolm sat at his station on the bridge, wishing Phlox would leave. Archer was exchanging final formalities with the Vulcan dignitaries and the Command staff, Enterprise would continue her mission, so there was nothing important left to say or do. The doctor didn't have to stay.

Malcolm didn't like the concern he had seen on Phlox's face when the Denobulan had entered the bridge. More likely than not, the doctor had merely come because he didn't want him back on duty so soon, and would order him to go to his quarters once the Vulcans had signed off. That was all right. Malcolm would be glad to go, even; in spite of the analgesic he had prescribed himself this morning, the pain was getting worse, and if he stayed on the bridge, someone might notice he wasn't exactly a hundred percent.

Phlox turned around to look at him, and Malcolm nodded a polite greeting, as if he had only just noticed the doctor's presence. He would go to his quarters, but there was no way he was going to sickbay. Not until things had taken care of themselves.

"Admiral," Archer said, then nodded at Hoshi. She closed the connection, and Malcolm stood before anyone had the chance to say anything.

"Captain, with your permission, I'd like to go to the Armory." Somehow, he managed to produce a smirk. "Make sure our Suliban friends didn't play around with any of the equipment."

His tone was dry, convincingly so. Behind his back, his hands were shaking.

Archer nodded. "Sure, Malcolm. Send me a report when you're done."

"Of course, sir." Stiffly, he turned, and had almost made it to the turbolift when Phlox spoke up.

"Lieutenant, I'd like you to come to sickbay with me. I don't believe you're quite well enough to resume your usual duties."

There was a questioning tone underlying the words, and Malcolm tensed. Had the doctor noticed he was hiding something? Had... God, no. Please not. No traces on his uniform, please. And he couldn't even check; he'd look quite the fool, turning his head to sneak a glance at his own arse.

"I've been in sickbay, doctor," he replied, careful not to sound defensive. Behind Phlox' back, he could see Trip giving him a concerned look. How he wished they'd all just leave him alone. "Crewman Hart checked me up."

"I know, Lieutenant. I still want to be sure that your injuries are healing well." Phlox was beginning to sound frustrated. Any minute now, Malcolm knew, one of his superiors would intervene and order him to go with the doctor.

_"Malcolm, let the doctor make sure you're okay. I need my Armory Officer in one piece."_

_"Don't get started, Mal. I don't wanna catch your ass in the Armory before you've been to sickbay, hear me?"_

_"Lieutenant Reed, I strongly recommend you accompany the doctor."_

"I will," he said before any of them could say the words. "Just let me make sure first that everything's still where it's supposed to be."

Please.

"Twenty minutes, Lieutenant." Phlox raised his eyebrows at him. "Please do not delay."

Twenty minutes. That should be enough to come up with some kind of emergency.

"Thank you, doctor." Nodding, business-like. "I'll be there."

Not.

He went into the turbo lift and checked as soon as the door had closed. Thank God, there was nothing on his uniform. He could feel that he was losing blood, though. Why the hell wouldn't it stop? The nightmares, the aches, the darting movements he kept seeing out of the corners of his eyes, it wasn't quite enough, was it? No, he had to worry about soiling his uniform as if he were on his goddamn period. He closed his eyes. If it had happened on the bridge... he didn't think he could have stood the look on their faces. Disgust. Revulsion. A trace of badly hidden amusement, perhaps.

_"Out of tampons, Lieutenant?"_

He pulled himself together when the door slid open again. He'd stop at the next lavatory, take care of things. And then he would go to the Armory and find something that would excuse him from going to sickbay. Then... well, he would have to improvise.

Something moved at the periphery of his vision, as if the gray wall paneling had suddenly morphed into... nothing. There was nothing.

Malcolm kept his eyes straight ahead as he walked down the corridor.

* * *

Malcolm managed to avoid the doctor for two days; a feat in itself, since there was no real emergency to keep him at his post. But he knew how to avoid people. He had done it often enough, sometimes for personal, sometimes for professional reasons. It was easy.

Eventually, of course, Phlox would put his foot down, but Malcolm found that he cared less and less what the doctor did or didn't do. He hid in the Jeffries tubes where he sat for hours at a time, the tool he had taken with him as a prop clutched in his hand. He hadn't noticed before how dangerous many of the electronic tools were. Take a hypospanner, for example; all you had to do was rig some circuits and play with the power cell a bit, and it would be child's play to make the thing blow up in your face. Or Trip's precious laser-cutter; it would slice through human flesh like a knife.

Sometimes, in there, hours passed like minutes, and sometimes he slept, and dreamed, and woke up in cold sweat, and sat there trying to calm his breath. Sometimes, he wasn't sure anymore if he had been dreaming or waking at some point. He remembered things moving, coming closer, hands, tearing at him... it all blurred in his mind until he could no longer tell the nightmares and the memories apart. Not that it mattered. He had the dagger hidden in his boot now, ready to be drawn at any moment. And he would draw it. Sometimes he wished they would just come out, come at him again so he could slash, slice, kill. He would enjoy making it last.

He hardly slept or ate, but it wasn't really a problem. He could go without food or sleep for longer than that, and no one saw the trembling of his hands or the circles under his eyes as long as he pretended to be busy in the Jeffries Tubes. No, he was all right, except for the damn bleeding. It wouldn't stop, wouldn't take care of itself, and he knew it was only a matter of time until someone would notice. He had considered sneaking into sickbay and trying to find out what was wrong so he could administer a treatment, but it was too risky, all odds and probabilities taken into account. Phlox always left a technician in charge when he went out to have dinner, and even if Malcolm managed to swipe a handscanner and some medication, the doctor would notice soon enough that some of his equipment had gone missing. No, it was better to leave things as they were.

Leave them until they took care of themselves, or not. It wasn't of much importance, not anymore. He had made his decision after he had woken from another one of those dreams. Sometimes, there were only so many options left. And sometimes, there was only one.

He slipped out of the Jeffries Tubes just before the Alpha shift left, nodding at Ensign Tanner, who was running a simulation Malcolm had assigned to him a week ago. A virtual Suliban cellship moved on the screen, flying a curve before it switched into attack mode, coming right at the viewer. Malcolm quickly averted his eyes. A flash of light suggested that Tanner had successfully destroyed his virtual enemy.

"Good work, Ensign," Malcolm said, or tried to say. His voice sounded strange to his own ears. Too dry.

Tanner smiled carefully. "Thank you, sir. I modified the vector, like you said. Time's improved by almost 0.2 seconds."

Malcolm only nodded. He knew Tanner expected him to have a look at the simulation himself, maybe try some more modifications, but he knew he could not. Not tonight.

"Sir?" Tanner was waiting for an answer.

"Well done, Ensign." To his relief, his voice had almost returned to normal. "Why don't you call it a day? We can continue the simulation tomorrow."

"Uh, sure. I mean, thank you, sir. I'll be off then."

Malcolm nodded and waited until the young man had left. He wanted to be sure that he was alone. After dismissing Tanner early, he had exactly ten minutes until the Beta shift arrived. It would be enough.

Once the Ensign was gone, Malcolm opened one of the weapons lockers. He had sealed that one with his personal code – not because he mistrusted his staff, but because he could not risk his little project being mistaken with a normal phase pistol in case of an emergency. He had been working on it for a while now, trying to align the phase modulations to increase the yield, but it wasn't safe yet to try it outside of simulations. His last tests had shown a yield increase of 20 percent, which was perfect except that the power cell couldn't handle the strain. It would overload when fired, and release an energy discharge that was bound to injure the person holding the weapon. Injure, or kill him. Malcolm supposed it would be the latter.

He took out the safety casing that held the pistol and closed the locker again. After a moment's hesitation, he touched the button that would delete the locking code he had programmed into the door. They could enter a new code when they returned the weapon to its rightful place.

He met no one on the way to his quarters, which was just as well. It was easier that way.

As always, his cabin was reassuring in its cool familiarity; stripped-down bunk, smooth, gray Starfleet furniture, empty shelves. He had removed the few books and personal items he had had on display.

For once, nothing moved as he entered. But he knew they were there. They would always be there.

He was losing blood again, but it didn't matter, did it? Soon the doctor would get his wish and have him in sickbay, and then they would find out anyway. He didn't want them to, but he saw no way to remove the body without leaving traces. He could, of course, set the transporter to its widest range and beam himself into space, but he knew that the Captain wouldn't stop searching until they had brought the body back aboard. Incineration was another option that came to mind, but that was impossible; he could hardly burn himself after he had died. And if he blew himself up, there might be damage to the ship, and he couldn't let that happen.

It would have been good, though. A small smile touched his lips. Boom, and gone. Presto, Maestro. That was how he would have liked it to happen.

But it would have to be an accident. Maybe, after the post-mortem, there would be doubts, but there was a difference between suspecting and knowing. That was important. He didn't want them to think about it too much. An unfortunate accident was something they would be able to accept.

He sat down at his desk and took the weapon out of its safety casing. In one of the drawers, there was a small tool box, and he spread a few microspanners on the table to make it look real. He had been working on the phase modulations when something had triggered an overload. Trip would tell them that it could happen. And afterwards, Trip would hunt down his ghost and kick its spectral arse. Repeatedly.

Malcolm pushed the thought aside, pushed aside all thoughts as he powered up the weapon.

He couldn't tell anyone. His own rule, and he would stick to it.

Malcolm was surprised to find that there was no pain at all.

TBC...

Please let me know what you think!


	4. Chapter 4

Thank you very much for your comments! This story is slightly different from my usual style, and I'm very interested in your opinions, so please keep telling me what you think. Constructive criticism etc. is very welcome.

* * *

Trip I

When Trip was eight years old, his best friend was Bedford. He wouldn't have told Parker Jones or any of his other buddies, but it was true. Bedford had slept on the rug in front of Trip's bed for as long as Trip could think. Trip would wake up in the morning to find a large, slobbery tongue licking his face, and go to sleep with one hand dangling over the edge of the bed, his fingers buried in the warm, shaggy fur. He would go for extended walks in the woods behind the Tucker family home, and his momma let him because Bedford was there to keep him safe. He would take Bedford to school for Show and Tell, and everybody would agree that they had never seen a better dog, and Melissa Lyles would ask him if she could come and visit Bedford some time. He told Bedford everything, even the thing about Andy's new computer game, and Bedford understood. Trip knew he did.

Then, one morning, his momma came into his room and told him that she had sad news. Bedford had gone for a walk on his own, and he had found something poisonous in the woods. Maybe someone had left it there on purpose, maybe not. Some people just don't think, Momma said, and Trip saw that she had been crying. It scared him, and when he went downstairs to see just how sick Bedford was, the fear crawled out of his stomach and gripped his heart.

The vet was very kind. She told Trip that Bedford was in horrible pain, and that he would be in pain for the rest of his life unless they helped him go to sleep. The fear was still wrenching Trip's heart and he wasn't able to say anything, but he held Bedford, and he didn't let go until the trembling body stilled under his hands.

In his entire life, he had never felt such pain again, not even when his cousin died in a car crash. To eight-year-old Trip, it hadn't mattered that Bedford was "only" a dog. He had watched his friend suffer and die, and on that day he had thought he could never be happy again.

Twenty-five years later, he was sitting on a chair in sickbay, thinking of the long hours he had cried in his bedroom after Bedford's death, and Malcolm's smirk if he knew what was going through Trip's head right now.

_I'm not a bloody Golden Retriever, Commander. Be assured, you won't ever catch me lifting a leg on the torpedoes._

But maybe Malcolm wouldn't have smirked, after all. He could be a snarky bastard, but his barbs never really hurt, not where it mattered. For all his lack of social graces, Malcolm seemed to know just how far he could go, and he never crossed that line. Unlike Trip, one might add, who had put his foot in his mouth more often than he could count. Sometimes it had been Malcolm on the receiving end, Malcolm who would quickly turn away so no one saw the hurt in his eyes, and counter with a vitriolic remark of his own. Malcolm, who was better at hiding his pain than anyone Trip had ever known.

When the alarm had gone off, when he had discovered that someone had fired a weapon in Malcolm's quarters, he had not been prepared for what he was going to find, not even after Malcolm failed to respond to his hails. He hadn't even taken a Security detail with him in his haste, even though in retrospect it seemed a stupid and careless thing to do. Malcolm would have kicked his ass from here to E-deck.

Malcolm. He had been slumped in his desk chair, and for a moment Trip had believed that he was, well, sleeping. Why Malcolm would fall asleep at his desk with a weapon clutched in his hand, Trip did not know, but he wouldn't have put it past the Security officer. Hell, some of Malcolm's staff wouldn't have been surprised if Malcolm slept standing up in his uniform, or maybe didn't sleep at all. He was that kind of guy.

Then, Trip had seen the horrible blisters, the burns on his hand. The way Malcolm's fingers gripped the weapon. The half-open eyes. And realized that Malcolm wasn't breathing.

The next ten minutes had passed in a blur of chaos and activity. Phlox' team rushing in, Malcolm on the floor, air being breathed into his lungs, then, finally, breathing on his own again. After that, the team had left, Malcolm on the gurney between them, pale, still, seemingly lifeless.

Trip had picked up the phase pistol. He knew immediately that it had been no accident.

"Trip."

He glanced up. Jon was there, looking worried. Trip supposed that he had been standing there for a while.

"Cap'n."

"Phlox is doing everything he can," Jon said, and while Trip knew that already, he was grateful that Jon would do this. Be the Captain, the one in charge.

"Yeah," he said.

Jon was quiet for a while. "I don't understand how this could happen," he said then. "Malcolm's not careless. He..."

He didn't finish the sentence, and Trip only lowered his head in reply. Jon hadn't seen the weapon, hadn't seen that it had been tampered with, but then, he didn't need to. Malcolm was the fussiest person alive when it came to rules and procedures; he would never forget to activate the safety catch, or increase power to such a percentage before he tried a new modulation. And he would never take any project of his back to his quarters.

Jon sat down on the chair next to Trip's. "I just don't understand."

Trip said nothing. The fear was back, squeezing his heart, and for a moment he felt as if he were eight years old again, too young even to ask why all of this had to happen. He wasn't, of course, and at some point he knew he would have to ask, but not now. Right now, all he could do was sit here and wait.

* * *

Malcolm was in surgery for almost two hours. Then, Phlox came out and told them that he was going to live. Live, as in lie on a biobed and breathe. Whether he would stay that way or wake up again, the doctor couldn't say.

"Lieutenant Reed has suffered a shock similar to electrocution. There are internal burns, damage from the muscle contractions, and there may be neurological damage. I'll be able to give you a more detailed report once the swelling goes down."

"Neurological damage?" Jon repeated quietly.

"Yes, Captain, I'm afraid so. Although I cannot tell you yet to what extent."

"So you're sure there is damage," Trip said. He hadn't meant to speak up, but there was something in Phlox' eyes that made the fear tighten its grip on his heart and twist it round and round.

Phlox inclined his head. "It is very likely, yes."

Trip said nothing. Malcolm had looked – dead, on that gurney; his right hand an angry red, blood trickling out of the corner of his mouth from where he had bitten himself, the front of his uniform ripped open after the med team had checked his vitals. He hadn't meant for himself to survive this. The amount of power he had used should have killed him in an instant, yet for some reason, Fate had decided to add a little cruelty of her own. The power hadn't killed MalcolmVery likely, it had simply wiped out his mind.

"Captain..." Phlox took a deep breath. "There is something else. I believe Commander Tucker needs to know this, too."

"He did it on purpose." Jon's voice was flat.

"Yes," Phlox confirmed sadly. "But that is not what I meant. I – I believe I know why Lieutenant Reed tried to commit suicide."

He didn't wait for a reply and continued. "While I prepped the Lieutenant for surgery, I found that he was bleeding from the rectum. At first I believed that the power shock might have resulted in a haemorrhage, but my scans showed that the injuries in question were in fact several days old." Phlox turned his face away. "Captain, I cannot tell you how sorry I am that I didn't notice this before. Now I understand why Lieutenant Reed was reluctant to meet me in sickbay, but I should have insisted that he attend the appointments. There is no excuse for my negligence, Captain."

"Wait a minute, doctor." Jon was frowning. "I'm not sure I can follow you here."

Phlox continued quietly. "My scans showed traces of an enzyme in Lieutenant Reed's blood, an enzyme that is usually not found in the human body. It prevented his internal injuries from healing and may have influenced his brain chemistry. I was able to neutralize it as soon as I had identified it."

"What kind of enzyme?" Jon wanted to know.

"Suliban," Phlox replied very softly.

Suliban. Malcolm had come into close contact with them during the interrogation. He had looked a mess when Trip had gone to his quarters after the attack was over, bleeding and bruised all over. It was possible that the enzyme had somehow found its way into his bloodstream. The only thing that didn't make any sense was the injury Phlox had mentioned, unless... Trip found himself fighting a sudden, violent urge to be sick. No. Dear God, no.

"I believe Silik's soldiers did more than just interrogate the Lieutenant," Phlox said quietly. "The physical evidence is there."

Jon sat down hard on his chair, a hand pressed against his mouth as if he, too, were fighting a sudden bout of nausea.

Unable to look at either of them, Trip turned away. Malcolm had been willing to take on the hardest part of their plan, letting himself be captured and interrogated. Had he known that this could happen? Had he agreed to go so it wouldn't have to be Hoshi... or Trip himself?

"You said the enzyme was influencing his brain chemistry," Jon said.

"The Lieutenant may have experienced increased paranoia and panic attacks. It is possible that he was beginning to hallucinate. I found this in his boot." Phlox held out a slender, gleaming blade, and Trip recognized it in an instant. It was the dagger Malcolm had bought on the station they had visited in the Eridani system. He stared at the weapon without really seeing it. Malcolm had been hiding, he realized that now. He had never been there when Trip had stopped by his quarters or the Armory, and he had never been in the messhall, either. Trip hadn't thought much of it at the time. Malcolm sometimes needed a "time out" after a particularly exhausting mission, would hardly show his face for a few days, bury himself in reports and repairs, and when he finally re-emerged, he was back to his usual calm and reserved self. Not this time, however. Trip thought of Malcolm slipping the dagger into his boot, Malcolm hiding somewhere in the bowels of the ship, Malcolm powering up the phase pistol. No one had been there to stop him.

Next time, there would be. Trip didn't often make promises to himself, but when he did, he kept them. This one was for Malcolm as well.

If Trip had anything to say about it, there wouldn't be a next time at all.

TBC...

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	5. Chapter 5

Thanks for the feedback!

* * *

Trip II

It took Malcolm four weeks to wake up. At first, he was simply not sleeping, his eyes staring blankly into space, hands twitching from time to time. Phlox said that he was making good progress.

As the days passed, he would wake up more often, and sometimes he talked, words that were too slurred for Trip to understand. He always answered, telling Malcolm about his day, about the film he had shown on Movie Night, about pretty much everything from the day's menu to his latest project in Engineering. Sometimes, he had the impression that Malcolm calmed down a little when he heard Trip's voice. Maybe he was just getting used to it. Trip spent almost all of his free time in sickbay.

Then, one night, Malcolm suddenly opened his eyes and looked at him; really looked, not the bleary, unseeing gaze of before.

"Trip," he said.

Trip nodded and rapidly blinked away the tears that were gathering in his eyes. Malcolm hated it when people went mushy on him.

"Yeah," he said, reaching for Malcolm's hand. "How... how're you feelin'?"

Malcolm blinked and suddenly his eyes filled with tears. "They... they hurt me, Trip."

"I know, Mal." Trip squeezed the hand he was holding. His own tears were running down his cheeks now, and he didn't care. "But they're gone now. They're not gonna hurt you again, ever."

Malcolm closed his eyes. "But it hurts," he whispered. "It hurts all the time."

Trip said nothing, and simply held on to Malcolm's hand until he had fallen asleep again.

* * *

Jon looked at the sleeping figure on the biobed, then back at Phlox. "Doctor?"

"Captain..." Phlox hesitated. "You realize that it is very hard to make a prognosis in cases of neurological trauma. The responses are unique, and there is always a chance of complete recovery even if the odds are slim."

Trip knew that the doctor wasn't exactly lying; there _was_ a chance that Malcolm would wake up tomorrow morning and be the same old Lieutenant Reed he had been before his suicide attempt. The chance existed; it was just astronomically small.

Jon seemed to glean as much from the doctor's tone. "So how is he?"

Phlox sighed. "Actually, he isn't doing too badly, Captain. He has been eating, and he responds when we talk to him." During the past month, the doctor had gotten so used to Trip's constant presence in sickbay that he automatically included him. "He's not the same person he was before, though."

"What are you implying?" Jon asked, beginning to sound impatient.

Trip rested a hand on his arm. "Cap'n... Malcolm's not gonna be able to do his job again. Well, he might," he added quickly, anticipating Phlox' objection, "but it's not likely. He wouldn't be able to deal with the stress, or simply understand the engineering and scientific part."

Jon's eyes widened. "You mean he's..."

Jon stopped himself, but Trip knew what was going through his head. It had taken Trip a while to wrap his own mind around the idea; in fact, he was only just beginning to understand what had happened to his friend. But there was that promise he had made.

"No," he said firmly. "He's not. He's just not quite the way we remember him."

The figure on the bed stirred, and Trip smiled. "Why don't you go talk to him, Jon? I'm sure he'd like to see you."

Jon hesitated.

"Jon," Trip said. "It's gonna be okay. Just, you know, chat a little."

Jon raised an eyebrow at him, and Trip knew what he was thinking. Malcolm Reed had never been one to "chat".

Malcolm was lying on his side, his blanket bunched around his waist. Instead of the sickbay pajamas which he detested, Trip had brought him an old sweater and pants, and the combination of baggy clothes and tousled hair made him look very young. When Phlox opened the privacy curtains, he turned his head and blinked, his eyes still puffy from sleeping.

"Hi," he said with a small smile.

"Hi Malcolm." Trip returned the smile and stepped aside so Jon could come closer. "Someone's here to see you."

Malcolm squinted. His eyes weren't as good as they used to be, although Phlox said that his vision might improve in time.

Jon walked over to the bed so Malcolm would be able to recognize him. "Hello, Malcolm. It's good to see you awake."

Malcolm's eyes widened when he realized who his visitor was. "Captain," he said, suddenly nervous.

"Hey," Jon said, smiling. "I just wanted to see how you were doing these days."

Malcolm stared at him for a few seconds, then his face relaxed and a tentative smile began to form. "I'm doing fine. Trip's... Trip's been reading to me." He took a padd from the bedside table and showed it to Jon. "Look."

Jon took the padd. "Kipling," he said appreciatively. "He's always been a favorite of mine. You like it?"

Malcolm nodded. "It's really good. You can borrow it when we're done," he offered.

"I'd like that," Jon said, handing the padd back to Malcolm, and Trip was reminded once more of why he admired this man so much. Nothing about Jon's demeanor betrayed that he found anything unusual or strange about the situation.

Malcolm smiled sleepily. "Okay. But you have to go now. I'm tired."

Jon grinned a little at that. "You got it. I'll see you later, Malcolm, if that's okay?"

"Yes, that's okay," Malcolm said, and, after a moment's pause: "Thank you."

"You're welcome," Jon said softly, but Malcolm had already settled down on his pillow, his eyes drifting closed. His fingers were still curled around the padd.

Quietly so as not to disturb him, Phlox closed the curtains and indicated that they should move to the other side of the room. Jon and Trip followed him.

"He's..." Jon trailed off, as if he weren't quite sure how to put it. "He doesn't seem depressed or agitated."

"He cried a lot at first," Trip said softly. He had held Malcolm for hours at a time, stroked his back and told him that it was going to be okay, that no one was going to hurt him again.

"So he remembers?" Jon asked.

Phlox inclined his head. "He does. He knows that he was attacked, and he knows that he tried to hurt himself afterwards. I'm not sure he's aware of all the implications of suicidal behavior, or the assault that preceded it."

Jon glanced back at the biobed. "And you're sure it's going to stay that way?"

"Neurological damage cannot be healed like a fractured bone, Captain. His condition may improve a little in time, and I hope that I'll be able to do something about his vision, but... essentially, the man you just met is Mr. Reed now."

A sad smile crossed Jon's face. "Well, I can't say I don't like him."

Trip nodded slowly. Neither of them would say it, but he knew that Jon was thinking the same thing. Malcolm as he was now would never try to kill himself.

"I'm gonna take care of him, Cap'n."

Jon nodded. "I know you will, Trip."

_No you don't_, Trip thought. But he wasn't going to tell Jon now. That could still wait until later.

TBC…

Please let me know what you think!


	6. Chapter 6

Thanks to everyone who's been reading this story, and especially to those who left a review!

* * *

Trip III

"I made us some tea."

Trip turned around in his desk chair, his elbow bumping against a stack of padds. They swayed precariously for a moment, then toppled over on the floor where they joined the chaos of notepadds, books and papers.

Malcolm, standing in the door and holding two cups of tea, laughed softly. "One day you're going to lose yourself in here, and then what do I do?"

Trip grinned and got up, stepping over and around the mess that would have brought tears to his mother's eyes.

"Look for me, I guess," he said, taking the steaming cup from Malcolm's hand. "You might wanna call an excavation team first, though."

Malcolm looked around the room, his expression bordering on admiration. "It's like a bomb exploded in here."

Trip laughed. "You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

Malcolm grinned sheepishly. "Well, yeah."

"C'mon." Tea in hand, Trip left his office and headed for the stairs. "Let's sit outside for a while. I can finish up here later."

It was cool outside in spite of the bright September sun, and Trip grabbed a couple of blankets from the couch before he followed Malcolm onto the porch.

"Here, let me." He wrapped one of the blankets around Malcolm's shoulders before he sat down himself, pulling his feet onto swing seat. "Gettin' chilly, isn't it."

Malcolm nodded, blowing on his tea. It had become a ritual with them, sitting out here in the evening, and although Trip had never much cared for any hot drinks besides coffee, he always joined Malcolm in his daily cup of tea.

"So, how was work today?"

Malcolm smiled; he'd been expecting the question. "It was okay. Lots of repotting to be done, so that was a bit boring, but we're almost finished. I went for a drink afterwards with Mike and Dan at that new place round the corner."

Trip smiled. When he had started work three months ago, Malcolm wouldn't have dreamt of exchanging more than a few words with any of his co-workers, let alone joining them for a beer and a chat, terrified of making a fool of himself. The fact that he could no longer do his job on Enterprise had left a wound, and it didn't help that it was his own doing that had led to his discharge from Starfleet. For a long time, Malcolm hadn't believed that anyone could accept him the way he was now.

"That's great, Mal. Did you have fun?"

Malcolm nodded. "Yes, we did." He laughed a little. "Dan wanted me to tell him about the 'alien babes' I met."

Trip grinned. "What did you tell him?"

Malcolm's expression became positively mischievous. "I told him better not to stick his fingers where they don't belong."

Trip groaned and rolled his eyes. "Is there gonna be a single day in my life when I'm not gettin' my face rubbed in it?"

Malcolm merely grinned in reply, and in spite of his mock annoyance, Trip was relieved that Dan's questions had not stirred up memories that were best left alone. Malcolm's sleep was still frequently disturbed by nightmares, and although they were mostly forgotten in the morning, they were also a reminder that all was not well, and wouldn't be for some time. But there were good days; a lot of those recently, and Trip was confident that there were more to come.

He smiled at Malcolm. "I'm glad you were havin' a good time."

Malcolm nodded and took a sip from his tea. "Did you talk to the Captain again today?"

"Yeah," Trip nodded. "He said he might drop by for a visit this weekend, if he can make it. They've got only ten days until they leave spacedock, and there's still a whole lot of upgrades left to be done."

Malcolm smiled. "It was nice of them to send me a birthday card."

Trip smiled too, remembering the card. Every single crewmember had crammed their signature onto it, including a paw print from Porthos. Malcolm had cried when he had seen it.

"Yeah, the card was great. Cap'n says hi, by the way, and he's glad to hear you're settlin' in well at your job."

Malcolm nodded, sipping his tea in silence. After a while, Trip noticed a strange expression on his face.

"Mal? Somethin' wrong?"

Malcolm shook his head. "No, it's just..."

Trip watched him carefully. "What is it, Mal?"

Malcolm took a deep breath. "Trip, I... I don't want you to be unhappy because you're staying here with me. You... you could go back to Enterprise..."

He turned his head away, but not before Trip had seen the pain in his eyes.

"Aw, Mal." Trip set his cup down and closed the space between them, wrapping his arms around Malcolm. "I'm not unhappy, and I don't wanna go back to Enterprise. My work's here now, lots of my friends are here, and I've got my family close by, includin' you. I don't think I could give all of that up for another tour on Enterprise."

And he was telling the truth, he realized. At first, he had come to Earth because of a promise he had made, and because he couldn't bear the thought of Malcolm shut away in some assisted living institution; not because he had particularly wanted to. Things had changed, though, and Trip found that he was happy with his life as it was now.

Malcolm leaned back, and Trip was glad to see that he was no longer looking sad. Malcolm was smiling. "I love you, Trip," he said softly. "You're my best friend, forever."

"I love you too, Mal. And I'll be your friend for as long as you'll have me." He gave Malcolm's shoulders another squeeze and grinned, breaking the mood. "Now, how 'bout some dinner, you hungry?"

Malcolm grinned back. "Starving."

"Well, we can't have that." Trip got up. "C'mon, let's see if there's some of that chili left in the fridge."

He smiled as they went inside. Good days to come, indeed.

The End

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